


To Those Who Remember We

by Padraigen



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (not so-), Accidental Bonding, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic, Canon Era, Destiny, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Revealed, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-06-12 15:53:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15343260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padraigen/pseuds/Padraigen
Summary: If Merlin was forced to find the one point that changed Merlin and Arthur into something else entirely -- or maybe nothing else. Maybe nothing reallychanged-- then he would say, with little hesitation and a whole lot of trepidation, that it was probably the night of an inconsequential hunting trip that took the two of them into the middle of the Darkling Woods.a sort of soul mate au bonding fic





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> so sorry about all the wips! i can't seem to stick with one story at a time, and it's very aggravating. this probably won't take me long to finish though! *fingers crossed*
> 
> warning: herein lies lots of cuddling and sleeping in the same beds together. you have been forewarned ;)
> 
> enjoy!

The story of how Merlin meets Arthur is probably not one that will endure history, but it is nevertheless an essential point in the grander story of how Merlin and Arthur become  _Merlin-and-Arthur._

Merlin knows this as much as he knows learning from the dragon of his destiny by Arthur’s side and having Arthur’s trust in the Valiant debacle are Essential Points. Just as he knows all the other thousands of Merlin and Arthur moments can be, and are -- to him -- considered Essential Points of the  _Merlin-and-Arthur_ story.

But if he really thinks about it -- and he does.  _A lot._  -- then none of these points are quite the turning points that transform Merlin and Arthur into  _Merlin-and-Arthur_.

(Or maybe all of them are.)

If Merlin was forced to find the one point that changed Merlin and Arthur into something else entirely -- or maybe nothing else. Maybe nothing really  _changed_ \-- then he would say, with little hesitation and a whole lot of trepidation, that it was probably the night of an inconsequential hunting trip that took the two of them into the middle of the Darkling Woods.

Merlin can hear the soft puffs of breath coming from Arthur’s open lips as they stare up at the curtain of darkness shrouding earth, tiny pinpricks of light pulsing in the night sky. Arthur lies positioned north while Merlin is positioned south, their cheeks mere finger-widths from touching. If Merlin turned his head the slightest bit, his lips would brush Arthur’s ear.

A flash of light streaks across the sky, drawing Merlin’s eyes. It’s faded, like he’s seeing it through a thin layer of smog, and only lasts for a few seconds, but it makes his lungs forget to contract. He only knows that Arthur’s seen it too by his faltered inhalation.

“... ‘S like magic,” Arthur says, voice thick with fatigue that didn’t come from any kind of hunting exertion.

Merlin wants to ask, his mind foggy and dancing with stray, irrelevant thoughts, why  _Arthur_ , of all people, would compare something as beautiful as a falling star to magic, but he doesn’t.

Later -- much later -- he thinks maybe he should have.

**

Things are… different, after that.

Merlin doesn’t notice it much at first. He trails behind Arthur on their way back to Camelot, a couple of measly hares secured to his horse’s saddle. If today felt like any other day, any  _normal_ day, Merlin would be chattering incessantly about nothing in particular and unabashedly riding at Arthur’s side. Today doesn’t feel normal though, and there is a deep, penetrating sense of hollowness within him that he can’t find the words to describe because it isn’t coming from within his physical being. It reminds him, though, of raw hunger, the ache similar and as impossible to satiate. But that isn’t it. It’s something coming from somewhere far more intimate. Something far more terrifying than even starvation, and it’s that fear keeping him from going to Arthur.

(There’s something to be said it’s his fervent desire to go to him that spawned that same fear.)

**

Merlin feels it more acutely when he’s back in his room in the castle, alone but for the thoughts roaming in his head that tell him a piece of him is missing. Ridiculously, he takes a moment to catalog his limbs as if one of them might have disappeared when he wasn’t paying attention, but then he catches himself and calls himself an idiot in his best impression of Arthur’s irritated cadence.

The thing about it -- whatever  _it_ is -- is it aches with a sort of dimmed intensity that is impossible to ignore or forget but not quite distinct enough that it hinders him from going about his daily business.

Arthur had gone straight to the training fields once they’d reached the castle, turning his horse over to the waiting stable hand without a word. He had not commanded Merlin to follow him. Merlin might have gone with him anyway, if it hadn’t been for the  _something_ in him -- the closest he could pinpoint it was between his chest and stomach -- pushing him in the opposite direction, like he was a magnet and his polar side was currently flipped to repel himself from Arthur. And Arthur had given no indication that he felt something corresponding, had not seemed to care or even notice that Merlin was not a step behind him as he should’ve been.

It’s only bearable when he’s doing other things that aren’t sitting around and thinking about it, things that take his mind off the emptiness. Working with Gaius helps, and so he sorts through the various ingredients Gaius uses for his potions with a meticulousness he hasn’t shown in tasks that don’t involve magic in… well, ever, really. And when he finishes with that -- far quicker than should be acceptable, honestly, this  _is_ Merlin -- he readily agrees to do some labelling for the sundry vials lying about the worktop.

Eventually, though, the sun has slowly vanished beneath the horizon and he can’t distract himself with meaningless chores anymore because Gaius starts to give him a funny look that expects him to either go to bed or explain what’s bothering him, and there is really only one option.

In bed his thoughts aren’t so easy to ignore, and neither is the hollow region below his sternum. The feeble blanket that came with the bed is swathed around his gangly limbs by the time he’s stopped tossing and turning on the cot, and it’s like the magnet inside him has been flipped again. This time it tugs him toward Arthur with no recourse.

The journey to Arthur’s chambers is a bit vague, a blur of shadows and moonlight coinciding into something more like obscurity. He can’t really rationalise the desire to see Arthur because he’s just spent two days alone with him in the woods -- generally more than enough time spent together in any given week -- but it doesn’t stop him from trying.

Merlin doesn’t have any plans when he enters Arthur’s rooms, doesn’t know what he expects to find but still unsurprised by the lump underneath the sheets in the middle of Arthur’s bed. The muffled snuffling coming from near the head of the bed tells Merlin Arthur’s asleep. Quiet has never been Merlin’s forte, but right now it’s almost effortless to rid himself of his boots -- can’t even remember putting them on -- and slip into the space beside Arthur beneath the covers with barely a sound.

It’s wildly inappropriate, for all he knows illegal, to sleep in the prince’s bed without said prince’s consent, but he isn’t thinking about that when he lies down. He doesn’t intend to close his eyes, but he nevertheless ends up falling asleep there, so near to Arthur’s body but not quite touching and finding immeasurable comfort in the proximity.


	2. Chapter Two

Merlin is startled awake by the feeling of someone watching him. He chokes on a gasp when he sees it’s Arthur, staring at him from the other side of his mattress.  _Arthur’s_ mattress. That  _Merlin’s_ sleeping in. Merlin’s heart stutters in his chest, and he doesn’t know whether he should fear the way Arthur’s looking at him. He can’t read the lines of Arthur’s face, the look in his eyes. Arthur is blank, completely inscrutable.

Before Merlin can utter a word, Arthur is sitting up and swinging his legs off the side of the bed. He runs a weary hand through his fringe and says only, “I require breakfast.”

Merlin can’t figure out how Arthur is so composed. Doesn’t know why he isn’t yelling and throwing things at Merlin, demanding to know why Merlin’s in his bed when he most certainly did not give him such an invitation. But he also can’t make himself question it, so by the time he pulls himself out of these thoughts he’s already scurrying halfway down the hall from Arthur’s chambers. He doesn’t even remember pulling his boots on.

Arthur does not mention the incident after that, and Merlin is relieved to follow suit -- more so than he is disappointed, anyway. Merlin goes about his chores like nothing ever happened, and Arthur continues to call him an idiot whenever the chance presents itself. The pull inside him that needs to be near Arthur never disappears. He occasionally finds himself wondering if Arthur can feel it too.

**

It all comes to a head one evening a week after the hunting trip when Merlin accidentally trips over his own feet whilst trying to pour more wine into Arthur’s goblet and Arthur’s reflexes are quick to catch him. It’s at that moment, when Arthur’s hand grips his forearm, that Merlin realises he and Arthur hadn’t come into physical contact with each other since that same trip, and he marvels that he never noticed. Because now something jolts through him, like he imagines it must feel when lightning strikes, and he’s on his arse before he can really even grasp that he’s falling again.

He stares up at Arthur in shock, the same sentiment reflected back at him. “Did you feel that?” Merlin asks, breathless and braver than he feels.

“What did you do?” Arthur demands, and Merlin’s indignation withers before it really has a chance to flourish. Did he do that? Could it have had something to do with him? His magic?

“I- I don’t- ” Merlin doesn’t know what to say or how to react. He loses his ability to speak entirely when Arthur reaches down to touch him again.

There is no jolt this time, just a rush of warmth and something like comfort. Something like peace. It isn’t something Merlin’s felt in a long time. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s  _ever_  felt anything quite like this. By the way Arthur’s pupils dilate and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he swallows, Merlin guesses he’s feeling it too.

Arthur’s whispered, “ _Oh…_ ” is so soft, Merlin almost doesn’t hear it.

**

Gaius calls it a phenomenon the likes of which he’s never seen in real life. Says something about shooting stars and the wills of the gods and magic. Of course, always, magic.

Their souls are bonded now, completely and irrevocably, more so than they were even before. They are no longer two separate beings but two souls permanently intertwined. They are  _Merlin-and-Arthur_.

Arthur doesn’t fight it, at least not obviously. But he spends as little time in Merlin’s presence as he can, until it hurts, until it’s unbearable for Merlin to not go looking for him. Merlin lets him be, doesn’t want to make it worse no matter how painful it is for him. Merlin lives in pain like it’s a second skin, has been doing so for years now even if it wasn’t the physical kind.

He silently longs for Arthur when Arthur sees fit to observe the outside villages without him. He feels it when Arthur bruises his fighting arm whilst training. He dreams of Arthur from his isolated room in the physician’s tower.

And he knows, inexplicably, that he is not alone in his yearnings.

**

They are walking back from dinner with Arthur’s father a few days later, and after Merlin closes the door to Arthur’s chambers, a gentle hand is turning him around. A light push has his back up against the door and then Arthur is kissing him.

Merlin can’t process what’s happening, doesn’t understand the  _how_ ’s or  _why_ ’s. He only knows the subtle pressure on his hip, the heat of a broad palm cradling his neck, the soft brush of a thumb under his ear. Arthur’s lips on his, sweet but adamant.

It’s several moments of heat and wet and  _want_ before Merlin gathers the wherewithal to push at Arthur’s chest, his arms weak but his purpose plain.

Arthur backs off, reluctant, and stares at Merlin with questioning eyes.

Merlin could almost laugh, hysterical, because really... Merlin’s not the one who ignored and avoided him for a week and then started kissing him out of the blue. And Arthur’s not the one on the edge of his sanity.

“Arthur… what?” Merlin says because it’s all he’s really capable of at the moment.

And then Arthur says, apropos of nothing, “You protect me, Merlin. I know.”

Merlin’s jaw unhinges. It’s only Arthur’s arm around his waist keeping him up after his knees buckle.

“I know you, Merlin,” Arthur says, breathing the words into his ear. “I know what you are.  _Who_ you are. Who you are to me.”

Merlin gulps and asks, his voice shaky, “And who is that?”

Merlin can feel Arthur’s smile against his cheek, warm and impossibly gentle. “My manservant, of course,” he says, cheeky. But then he sobers and continues, “My friend. My biggest supporter.” His next pause is so significant a shiver runs down Merlin’s spine. “... My soulmate.”

The beginnings of tears prick at the corners of Merlin’s eyes, and he’s having trouble breathing. “Arthur…”

Merlin feels faint at Arthur’s next words, can almost feel his heart stop. “You’re a sorcerer.”

Trembles wrack Merlin’s body unrepentantly, but Arthur never lets him go. He rides it out with him until Merlin asks, “How long have you known?”

Arthur doesn’t answer right away. It takes Merlin a moment to realise he’s been swaying him in his arms.

“Long enough to know you’d never harm me. Or this kingdom.”

“I’m sorry I never told you.”

“I… understand,” Arthur says, but it’s clear in his hesitation that that’s not completely true.

“You do?”

Arthur leans back slightly and looks into Merlin’s eyes, like he’s seeing him for the first time. Merlin’s never felt so vulnerable or so completely safe.

“You wanted to protect me.” Merlin nods, because it’s true even if it isn’t everything.

Arthur must see it, must notice something in the way Merlin is looking at him because then he says, “You… love me?” It comes out more of a question than he probably intends it to, a plea for confirmation of something he’s hoped for for so long.

Merlin swallows a sob, but that doesn’t keep the tears from spilling over. Merlin’s hands, still resting on Arthur’s chest, curl into Arthur’s tunic. He surges forward, crashes his lips onto Arthur’s.  _Yes,_  he says with the way his tongue is brushing up against Arthur’s lips.  _So much,_ he says as his hands inch higher, until they’re cradling Arthur’s head.

It’s at that moment that he knows they’ll be all right. That the bond didn’t  _make_  them  _Merlin-and-Arthur_  but just hurried the process along. That they were an inevitability -- not a question of certainty, but a question of eventuality.

**

When Merlin thinks about it, thinks about how his story -- their,  _their_  story, because there is no story without them both -- will be told, he doesn’t know where it could possibly begin. It can‘t start with Merlin, just Merlin, or just Arthur, because there is no Merlin without Arthur and no Arthur without Merlin. They’re intertwined, two threads irrevocably weaved together in the giant tapestry of the universe, impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.  
  
Really, he thinks, if he were the one telling the story, he wouldn’t start with the beginning at all because for all he knows the beginning is not the beginning, but a millennium off, and he wouldn’t start with the end because even if Arthur lay dying in a clearing with Merlin’s tears buried in his hair, he doesn’t think that would really be the End, but just the end of some other beginning; he would instead start somewhere in the middle, and it would probably turn into something like a run-on sentence, because middles are really just a story of different stories,  _their_ stories, told and retold until they’re all mingled together with no distinction, no beginning, no end, and…

**

 

 

THE END

( _... but not really._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the last of it. I'm not entirely happy with it, and I know it was pretty rushed, but I really just wanted to finish it so I sat down this afternoon and did just that. I know it probably wasn't everything you guys were hoping for, but I hope you enjoyed it at least a bit anyway. <3


End file.
